Smallquietstill

One word, running together. It’s those spaces of stillness when the memories are clearest: waking in the night, and the hematite disk that hangs about my neck on a silk cord falls against my stomach as I sit up. It is cold. Sitting in an office chair at work and out the window is a tiny flash of red on a leaf darkened only by the window tinting. A ladybug crawling. Feeling a lover’s skin pressed against mine, stomach to stomach. I can feel his breathing. Yesterday, years old. It doesn’t matter. These are the memories that stay.

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